


Tangle of Fire and Ice

by beautlilies



Series: What I've Tasted of Desire [2]
Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M, but alas here we are, i def had no business writing this one either, the one i had no business writing in the first place, the sequel to the peaky fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28703217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautlilies/pseuds/beautlilies
Summary: She has been burned from fire and scorned from ice.
Relationships: Alice Cullen/Jasper Hale, Jasper Hale/Maria
Series: What I've Tasted of Desire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104035
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Tangle of Fire and Ice

Symbolism in the comfort of black ink. Metaphorical gestures in a poet's grandeur - overt, pretentious, hollow. Subtle references in the strokes of paint brushes, the palette of the brightest, the loudest colors. A disruption to the ambience in the home, stark and glaring and an encapsulation of the tempity of this present, this past, the future that is constantly shifting and constantly stagnant. 

Landscape of seclusion. Of boulders and the violent current of the stream. Hues of sunshine, rainbow of color families. Novellas of lilacs, nigella and lavatera. Idioms and metaphors, an ocean tide of lost memories and a current of accidental betrayals, the cost of assumptions. The kiss of marriage, the tangle of fate, the brush of fire in bands of gold and diamonds. Clothing cut from silk. Diamonds of the purest kind. An attention to detail never seen before. He set her alight in that substantial house of brick and ancient oak house she loathed; it is only fitting that he try to put her back together in the one she loved so much, quaint and delicate and at the edge of the beach, the salt hanging on the breeze, carried in through open windows.

Skin that heals. Blossoms into the standard of beauty - pale, soft, unwavering gentleness. Scars fade, blur and blend and disappear beneath layers of fabric. They compliment the process of biology, wonder at the marvels money can buy - good doctors, better medication, time to hide away from public scrutiny. She is still a wondrous beauty of wide eyes and dark hair, still resembles characters and represents the ideal form of a woman - shapeless, petite, weak. But heads turn to stare at gold on her finger, watch the tilt to her chin with the children she wrangles. They envy her looks, not her life. Envy her wealth, not her husband.

The world flickers to dark hues of gray, black and white flashes of something dangerous on the horizon. Her children are no longer children, old enough to be stolen from her and sent to the shores of German allies. To be sent in the sky of clear blue and white wisps only to fall thousands of feet into cold, dark ocean water. They are her children, Abel and Thomas, and she clings to news clippings when she catches Thomas tearing at his hair and praying under his breath, clings to the spiel on the radio when Abel breaks down in the silence of the night, and swears to herself to do everything she can to keep them from this - from turning into their father.

But he is in Italy, Austria, the Netherlands. Unable to be found. The barmaid has disappeared too, dark hair and dark skin and a streak of rebellion in her. She writes. Pleads with anyone that will listen to spare her children. Spare her Abel from the sound of explosives. Spare her Thomas from the smell of gunpowder. But no one listens. No one gets her letters. Each one ever sent to the post intercepted - a guard, a maid, Jasper himself. A measure to ensure she does not embarrass him, another mark against his reputation. Another reminder that she is not on the list, that the family they have built no longer ranks when it comes to most importance. He has the business. Politics. The pretty barmaid. 

She rages. Puts herself together in soft silk and pages of blackmail. Drips in diamonds and elegance, practiced in measured stares and the unsettling art of manipulating men. Knows how to dress, how to talk. How to break all sense of will with the bat of her lashes and something akin to flirting. She was all he trusted once, all he ever relied on. Now, there’s hundreds of men with little experience in anything but the bruising of knuckles and ill-made threats. He kept her far from it, but kept her farther from him.

But she is a woman in a man's world. No matter what her name is, she will always be reduced to the space between her thighs and the flesh on her chest. She will always be the wife of Jasper Whitlock. Will never be able to lead a successful life in anything, not without his approval.

There’s hundreds when he brings her into his office - the one by the pretty barmaid, the one he bent her over ever surface before he could close on it,  _ for luck  _ \- sitting on the great oak desk that takes up more space that he would never admit to because it would be admitting that she was right once more, and for some reason, he has this thing about seeming as close to an all-knowing god than man. It smells like liquor and cigarettes and vaguely of sex. Alice tries not to vomit. 

An awkward silence. He waits for her to break. She simply stares at him, unimpressed and pretending that she is not sitting across from him, that she’s analyzing his every move and the sweat on his hairline and the lipstick marks smeared on the inside of his collar. But she never does. 

It infuriates him. Makes his ink pool when his hand strains. She wonders if his arthritis is flaring up. Then she wonders if it’s flaring because of the pretty barmaid. Alice decides it doesn’t matter. Time ticks by. Papers are signed, moved to the side. Finally, he sets down his pen and scrubs at his face.

“Did you really think I’d send my sons off to war?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t have. You know that.”

“No,” Alice rests her chin in the palm of her hand. “I don’t know that.”

“I’m not a monster, Alice.”

She stares at him pointedly.

“Look, I know things have been  _ rocky _ .” He looks exhausted, deep bruises under his eyes, wrinkles along the sides of his mouth. Golden hair turned silver, long strands that she used to twirl around her fingers, would tease him about when the boys were in bed and the house was silent. “But I would  _ never  _ let the boys -”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“No.”

He leans back into his chair. She thinks, momentarily, if she has struck a nerve. But then he gives this tiny, breathless laugh and she knows she hasn’t. “You’d be right to do so.”

“Are we done here?”

“Not quite.” Jasper stands, pulling a cigarette out from his pocket and tucking it between his lips. Once, he would have been handsome. A sight to behold. She remembers so clearly she would melt at the sight, remembers how easy it was to succumb to the touch of his lips and the mischief and his eyes. And she can never truly blame that pretty barmaid that has two daughters that look so much like him, that smiles something wicked whenever they run into each other at the market. 

Jasper takes out a single letter. Her signature clear and easy at the bottom, her penmanship across faded parchment. She knew he found it among the other letters, but she had hoped. 

“I won’t sign them.”

She knew he wouldn’t. But she had hoped he would free her from this, if not this life than this marriage. 

But he is a man of power and reputation. And she’s nothing more than the woman with gold on her finger and ice in her heart.


End file.
